No Paine No Gain (The Treehouse Boys #2)

by McKinley May

After a few more final touches, I walk out into the living room. Instantly, I spot my BFF/roommate, Rayne, and her boyfriend, Vaughn—a sight I've gotten quite used to over the past few months. These two have been attached at the freaking hip since getting together last semester. They're kind of a funny match. Rayne's Miss Good Girl 101: perfectionist and rule-follower to the extreme. When she fell for the soccer team captain and blue-eyed bad boy, Vaughn Steel, no one was more surprised than me. But they're seriously perfect together, each balancing out the other in a yin-yang fashion. Anyone within a fifty-mile radius can see they're head over heels in love.

I've been standing literally two feet away for the past couple of minutes, but apparently love makes you oblivious to your surroundings. I swear I could start this apartment on fire and they'd go up in flames staring into one another's eyes.

I position them in the screen, finger poised above the Record button. "Ready?" Rayne's head bobs in confirmation as Vaughn glances over at me. "Make sure you get my good side," he insists. "It's all about the angles, Lex." "Good side. Angles. Right." My eyes roll at the ridiculous notion that someone with a face like his would be worried about unflattering angles. He's one of the few people on this planet who can accidentally open the front camera on their phone and look like a freaking supermodel while the rest of us mere mortals resemble thumbs.

The tension in my shoulders dissipates when I realize it's not a girl at all; it's just Ellie Landry.

Not a girl? Ellie kinda sounds like a girl.

Liam takes a seat at the table and shrugs, unconvinced. "My nan knitted me a jumper once. I told her I loved it. A couple of hours later, I sold it online for fifty quid."

My sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor as I break into a run. I make it to the hallway where the lab is located and breathe a sigh of relief when I spot another student thirty feet ahead of me. Thank God I'm not way later than everyone else. This guy barely beat me here. I'm sure we'll end up as partners, so I give him a hasty perusal. I can only see his back, but it's more than enough to assign him an accurate label. Slacker. All of the I-don't-give-a-flying-fuck-about-school signals are there. He's decked out in sweats, the hood of his Windhaven sweatshirt is covering his head, and the black Adidas track pants hugging his admittedly well-defined ass are wrinkled as if he slept in them. His lazy gait screams "I'd rather be in bed", and I can hear the music he's blasting through his headphones all the way down the hall.

Nice ass? Bonus...

"Hi there. Looks like we're going to be lab part—" My sentence falls flat as he removes his hood. The moment those familiar hazel eyes meet mine, a wave of pure annoyance surges through me. This cannot be happening right now. He is the absolute last guy I'd expect to see in a class like this. There's just no way my lab partner for the next five months is him. Weston freaking Paine.

Look, every campus has one. Every. Single. One. Doesn't matter if the student population is big or small, the university public or private, they've all got a Weston Paine strutting around the place. The college manwhore. The notorious womanizer. The can't go 24 hours without getting some Lothario who not only has devastatingly good looks, but also the charm and quick wit to seal the deal. Mix that in with his esteemed student athlete status and you've got all the necessary ingredients for an egotistical prick. Usually, I avoid these kind of guys like the plague. Cocky asshole is so not my type.

He runs a hand through his messy hair and grins. A small dimple appears on each cheek. "This is gonna be fun."

Dimples? Oooh, I’m a sucker for a pair of dimples.

"Now take a long gander at your partner. Really look at them." Damn. The last thing I want to do is stare at his face—I'm already more than aware of what he looks like. There's no beating around the bush here. He's hot. I know it. He knows it. Everybody on this stupid campus knows it.

He's your typical boy-next-door—the ones portrayed in the movies, not the creepy mouth-breathers from real life that always seem to be "bird-watching" in the direction of your bedroom window. Chestnut hair that strikes the perfect balance between unkempt and styled, golden skin from countless workouts in the sun, and that gorgeous smile and the accompanying dimples that take his look from masculine and sexy to irresistibly adorable in an instant... He's got the look down to a T.

Fucking Barbie. Out of all the potential lab partners I could've been paired with, Rayne's feisty roommate was the last to cross my mind.

I glance towards the blonde on my right. Heart-shaped face, piercing green eyes, legs that go on for freaking miles... Damn. I forgot how insanely attractive she is. Most definitely not the type of partner I was anticipating.

Barbie leans forward, fetching something from her backpack. Her black shirt gapes in the front, giving me an unobstructed view of her damn near perfect rack. Holy shit. Screw my plan. If this is what I get to look forward to every Monday morning, this 8 a.m. is gonna be jussst fine.

"Uhh...sure." I reach over and fumble the knobs a few more times. Hopefully, this final attempt will produce the magic touch that makes this P.O.S. work. "Sorta."

Weston. Did you turn on the microscope?

"Sorta?" She frowns and dips her head to have a look. Her hair falls down in a curtain around the microscope, the movement sending a wave of fruity conditioner straight to my nose. I breathe in deeply, the smell downright intoxicating. Biology lab, microscopes, her mesmerizing scent...We're having a freaking Twilight moment over here. Except I don't want to kill her. I want to fuck her.

She whirls around and I immediately notice two things. 1. She's tall for a chick. Really tall. I'm 6'3'' and she doesn't have to crane her neck to look at me like the majority of girls on this campus. And 2. She looks annoyed as hell that I followed her out here.

I stare after her, feeling equal parts flabbergasted and intrigued at her refusal. She's sassy as shit.

The moment my butt hits the chair, I take the world's biggest bite of burrito. It's so massive my cheeks are straining like a chipmunk and a blob of pico de gallo dribbles down my chin. I look like a total glutton, but concern for my outward appearance is overridden by my stomach's long-awaited appeasement. Getting this food in my belly >>>>>> Manners.

"Some of the O-Chem questions were tricky, but it was alright for the most part. This one girl did run out balling five minutes in, though."

Bawling. It’s B A W L I N G. such a pet peeve of mine.

And sure, taking an interior design class once a semester gives my right brain a chance to shine while my left brain takes a much-needed rest, but that's also not the reasoning behind it. I really and truly love this stuff. It interests me, inspires me, and not to toot my own horn or anything, I'm damn good at it. It's also the only thing keeping me relaxed lately, the only thing that temporarily relieves the lingering cloud of stress that's been bogging me down the last few months.

Hon, I think Interior Design should be your major instead of pre-med.

Coach never comments on Diego's inability to make it through a training session without a snack, but today is obviously not the day to be pushing his boundaries. "Uh, yeah?" Diego attempts to remedy the situation, holding out the food in offering. "You want some? It's the best kind. S'mores."

I grab some food and coffee before I spot Cam and Liam at a large table they managed to snag. Just as I'm about to dig into my meal, a familiar brunette saunters up to us. "Morning." Rayne drops a banana on the table and starts pulling out a chair. "Not so fast, Rayne Drop." I stick a foot in the seat. "This table's reserved. Dudes only."

"I heard about your new lab partner." Awh, fuck. Here we go. "Poor Lexie," Vaughn mumbles with a laugh. Before Rayne can start in on me, I take the liberty of beginning the conversation. "Yeah, about her. I thought she was a party girl?" Her shoulders rise in a 'kinda-sorta' fashion. "It depends on your definition of party girl. She's definitely not one of those snorting-lines-of-coke-in-the-bathroom party animals. More of a social butterfly who likes to have a good time. She goes out a lot for sure."

"And she's gonna be a doctor?" "She's smart." Rayne nods. "Really smart." "And she's smoking hot?" I scratch the stubble on my chin. "Damn."

Liam can be an asshole sometimes, but Ellie has a way of bringing out the cuddly-as-shit teddy bear hidden deep within. His icy exterior melts the moment he hears her voice. He lets out a chuckle in response to something she said and rubs the side of his neck. "Love you, too, Peaches." Cameron and Vaughn begin a chorus of retching noises as Liam glances over and scowls. He catches my eye and I shake my head in mock disappointment. "Dude," I say with a half-smile. "Fucking nauseating."

There was the dude who ordered three triple-cheeseburgers to his room a few hours after his double bypass surgery. The artery-clogging meal was intercepted by a nurse who told him he might as well schedule his next surgery right then and there if he refused to change his eating habits. And then there was the massage therapist who decided a measly hospital stay wasn't going to put a damper in her business. At first we thought this lady was the most popular patient we'd ever had judging by the startling amount of visitors she received. Turns out they were just clients in need of some deep-tissue therapy.

The worst was a woman who decided kinky hospital-bed sex with her husband was on her bucket list, and finally the opportunity had presented itself. Her heart monitor skyrocketed, a nurse and I barged into the room to see what was wrong, and...yeah. I'll let you fill in the rest for yourself. I shudder at the memory.

When Chelsea found out she was pregnant last year, she asked if I'd like to help design the nursery. My answer was an immediate and enthusiastic Uh, Duh!! and we began planning budget, layout, and all the in-betweens. Now that she's quickly approaching her third trimester, it's time to put those plans into action.

See, interior design.

I'm swiping on some chapstick when I hear a familiar *ding* from my computer, the one indicating a new email has arrived. I skip over to my laptop, an unread message with the subject "Lab Shit" at the top of my inbox. Classy. And it's a full 25 minutes late. But if I'm being honest, that's a lot better than I expected from Weston. I figured getting him to do his part would be akin to pulling teeth.

The sharp pop of the beer tab interrupts me. I watch in utter disbelief as Lexie brings the can to her lips and takes a long swig of the liquid. She catches my eye and wags her eyebrows up and down, taunting me. "Are you seriously...?" I can't help the entertained grin that spreads across my lips. "That's fucked up, Barbie." A normal person would set the drink down, cut the teasing off right there, but not her. Nope. Instead, she tilts her head back farther and starts chugging the damn thing, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Holy shit. This girl is evil. And damn if I'm not kinda turned on right now.

I take a seat at our lab table and watch with curiosity as Lexie continues to chat with Dr. Benton for the next ten minutes straight. I still barely know the girl, but she's probably one of the most sociable people I've ever met. Pretty sure she could start up a conversation with a brick wall if she tried.

"Or he wants to turn me into a lamp shade," she adds with a shudder. "Look for me on the next season of Forensic Files. I'll be the one on the end table, basking the room in a dim glow."

She watches Forensic Files too!! A girl after my own heart.

"Relax," I whisper, swiveling my head so my lips hover just above her ear. "Act like you like me or this isn't going to work." She expels a deep breath, the air warming my neck as the tension in her body dissipates. Her hand wraps around my middle, her breasts pressing firmly against my bicep. Yeah, no doubt about it. Those glorious tits are the real deal. When her cheek nuzzles against my shoulder, it's my turn to get a little stiff. 'Cause shit. This feels fucking nice.

I can't tell you how refreshing it is to find someone who actually appreciates my nonstop chattering about colors and styling and room layouts. Whenever I try to talk to my friends about this stuff, they zone out two minutes into the conversation.

Seems to me she should make interior design her major instead of pre-med

"I mean, he's still Weston, but...I don't know." I chew on my lip as I consider it. "He's not that bad." Weston Paine's not that bad. What a complete 180 from a mere two weeks ago, but it's the truth. I don't dislike him near as much as I thought I did. Sure, his womanizing ways still grind my gears. And don't even get me started on how little I trust him when it comes to our schoolwork. But studying with him at The Treehouse wasn't a terrible experience. And then there's the fact I got to see a whole other side of him in lab this week. This macho soccer star can't handle a little rat guts? It was kind of cute.

I'm about to tell him to get a move on when the infamous line finally comes through the phone. "What are you wearing?" His voice is a notch lower and significantly more gravelly than his previous attempt. It catches me off-guard, but I quickly clear my throat. "Khakis," I answer, trying to get him to break frame. It doesn't work. It doesn't work at all. "Fuck," he murmurs, the sexy tone of his voice penetrating the line and sending a sizzle straight down my spine. "That sounds hot." And then he lets out a deep, sensual groan, one that has me swallowing the growing lump in my throat. "You should come over," he growls out.

And now I understand his impeccable track record—it's not about what he says, it's how he says it. The natural sexual tension that oozes from his voice is an undeniable panty-melter. He could read the phone book, the terms & conditions for a contract, the freakin' Canterbury Tales, and I'd still be clenching my thighs together like I am right now.

Tuffs of messy brown hair poke out from beneath a backwards baseball cap and black Ray-Bans shield his eyes. One arm hangs loosely out the driver-side window, the other hand lying casually atop the wheel. Late afternoon sunlight penetrates the windshield, the rays highlighting every inch of his picturesque profile.

The perfect lighting, the chilled-out vibe, and the annoyingly attractive guy...It's as if I've been dropped into the middle of a freakin' car commercial.

My eyes widen, my vision involuntarily dropping to his navy T-shirt. The material clings to an obviously chiseled physique, and for the second time today, I find myself at a loss for words when it comes to Weston's antics. Why I'm so easily flustered this afternoon, I have no clue. But it's driving me mad.

His head twists towards mine as he lifts the sleeve of his shirt and winks. "This is what we do in off-season." He straight-arm flexes, the cut bicep and tricep of his upper arm bulging beneath golden skin. I admire the robust muscles for about two seconds before I quickly put an end to his little show. I'm not about to get tongue-tied over him again. Not going for a three-peat here.

I open my computer and double-click the lab report doc I created earlier. As the assignment loads, my eyes involuntarily travel towards the bar. Weston's chatting amicably with the freckle-faced teenager working behind the counter. He says something to the boy, and the teen starts laughing before they exchange one of those bro fist-bumps. A few moments later, a middle-aged couple emerges from the back kitchen, eyes shining when they see Weston. I watch with interest as the man gives him a firm handshake and the woman pulls him into a tight hug, the interaction spiking my curiosity. I used to think Weston's charm was a bit of an act, a performance put on solely for women he wanted in his bedroom. But the more I interact with him, the more I notice it's not just girls who seem to like him—everyone who comes into contact with the guy is spellbound by his infectious personality. People light up like a freaking Christmas tree whenever he's around.

I sweep a hand over her frame as I check her out from head to toe. The tiny black dress she's wearing is hugging every curve of her body, her smokey eye stands in stark contrast to those bright green irises, and her normally pin-straight hair is styled into loose, sexy as hell beach waves. I've never seen her dolled-up to this extent, and shit—it's hotter than anything my imagination could conjure up.

At least with Weston, I know we can hold a lengthy convo. Sure, our chats aren't always of an amicable nature, but they never fail to entertain. Dull moments and awkward silences aren't an issue for the two of us. With Trey? I counted five in the first fifteen minutes. The date was nothing short of painful.

His hand travels down to my shoulder, my pupils following the movement. When the outside of his pinky just barely grazes the edge of my jaw, a flurry of goosebumps pricks at the back of my neck. I intake a sharp breath, fighting down the accompanying shiver.

Requests for an encore emit from the chaos, but Diego ignores them and dives belly-flop style into the mob. Weston grabs his half-empty beer from the ground and starts to head off the stage, but I reach for his hand. My fingers somehow intertwine with his, the touch stopping him in his tracks. His eyes travel from our locked grip to my face, an expression I can't decipher clouding his gaze. I realize what I'm doing and quickly jerk my hand away.

As he walks up behind me, I realize we're totally about to have a moment—one of those "I'm teaching you a new skill, but really I just wanna get up close and personal" moments.

The air's thick with hookah smoke, my head swaying lazily to the R&B song. And Weston's behind me. Intoxicated or not, I would recognize his enticing scent anywhere. Spicy, masculine cologne. Just a hint of spearmint in his body wash. Yum. His fingers dig into my hips, body molded to mine as we grind together. When I rub my ass against his crotch, a deep groan mixes with the music. I'm not sure if it came from him or me. Fuck. He's so hard. Our motions are completely in tune. Our rhythm matched to a T, like we've been dance partners for years. And they say the way you move together on the dance floor is a direct reflection of the way you'll move together in the bedr—

I glance forward, eyes traveling past the half-empty baker's dozen on the table and up to Weston's face. And I don't know if it's the alcohol or the sugar rush talking, but damn. He looks so freakin' good. Have you ever met someone who becomes even more attractive after a wild night out? I haven't. Not until now.